A Runway Ghost Story
by Dan Sickles
Summary: Andy's unsettling encounter with a ghost gets Miranda out of a real jam! No slash, but a lot of spooky thrills, plus a real look at Andy's resourceful personality, quick thinking, and her total devotion to RUNWAY magazine. And to Miranda of course! Rated T for disturbing themes, and some profanity.


A RUNWAY GHOST STORY

_Andy's run-in with a ghost gets Miranda out of a jam. I do not own these delightful characters. Please comment nicely! _

It all started late one night when Andy Sachs was alone at the office, waiting for the book to be delivered. During the daytime the Runway office was a madhouse. Everyone was jumping through hoops trying to please Miranda Priestley, clackers were running in and out, and there were racks of dresses being unloaded every minute.

At night it was different. The Elias-Clark building was deserted. On Andy's floor there was no sign of life, except for a few mannequins left half-dressed and the blue-gray glow of computer screens no one remembered to turn off. Miranda's assistant was half-asleep as she waited for the mock-up of the latest issue of Runway to be delivered.

And then she saw the ghost.

At first Andy didn't get it. Didn't understand what she was seeing. There was this young woman, a black woman, standing out in the hallway. She had a baby in her arms. She was just standing there, gazing through the office window. And then she faded away. And Andy got it.

It would have been a good story to tell in front of a roaring fire, with Doug and Lily hanging on every word and Nate squeezing her hand. But Miranda Priestley was not the sort of person you ran to with a ghost story. Not if you wanted to keep your job. So for now the ghost was her little secret.

What freaked her out the next day were the nuns. There were two of them, one old and fat and one young and skinny. Andy was just getting off the elevator clutching a bunch of late-morning lattes when she saw the two of them leaving the editor-in-chief's office. Of course nothing was unusual at Runway. Models dressed up all the time as bikers, oriental Geishas, or fairytale princesses. But there was a lost and mournful look in the young nun's beautiful dark brown eyes that seemed hauntingly familiar. The girl gazed up at the huge framed cover photos that lined the hall, pictures of beautiful fashion models wearing elegant couture or casual swimsuits. Some were even lounging in the arms of sexy young men. Those sad brown eyes really drank it all in.

Andy got the fact that the poor girl was eyeing forbidden fruit. Still it was a bit of a shock when the older nun smacked her right in the face. One minute the ugly old bat was crossing herself, and then _smack!_ Right in the face. Like it was part of the ritual. The two of them didn't talk about it. They just shouldered past Andy and got into the elevator. Miranda's stunned assistant watched the doors slide shut as the two of them dropped out of sight.

"I didn't know nuns were allowed to hit people," the shaken beauty remarked moments later, when she was dropping off Nigel's coffee. "Isn't that, like, against their religion?"

"Not allowed?" Nigel nearly choked on his coffee. "Six, that is their religion. What the French call their _raison d'etre_." The kindly, bald fashion editor took off his glasses and wiped them down, his wry demeanor masking a deep anger. "Of course, the violence isn't always the worst of it. When I was . . . when a _cousin_ of mine was in kindergarten in Peekskill at a place called Sacred Heart, there was special post-it board on the wall. Up on top were family snapshots the kids brought in of relatives who passed away. Down below were the flames of hell. And every time a kindergartner fidgeted or talked out of turn, down went grandma into the flames of hell."

"You're just kidding, Nigel. Right? Please tell me you're kidding!" Andy couldn't imagine anyone doing such things to children. But Nigel didn't get a chance to answer, because Miranda was already screaming for her in her soft voice.

"This coffee was warm, not hot, when you brought it to me," the silver-haired woman said softly. Miranda looked tired, which was unusual. "Get me some truly hot coffee, Andrea. And make a reservation for ten, no twelve people for dinner next Friday at that place I like. It'll be a late dinner, ten o'clock or so. Rework my schedule accordingly. And make sure that fish is on the menu, because my new friend Sister Josephine doesn't eat meat on Fridays."

"Of course, Miranda. And I'm very sorry about the coffee. I just got distracted when I saw your 'new friend' hitting her partner out in the hallway. I didn't know nuns did that."

Miranda's next line should have been "details of your vast ignorance don't interest me," or something like that. It wasn't just being mean. It was the way she kept things moving. But today Miranda seemed tired, discouraged, not her usual dynamic self. "I didn't know they did that either," she sighed.

"Who were those two women, anyway?" Andy asked Emily Charlton, when they were finally finished for the day. "Those two nuns in black, remember? How did they get in here?"

"God knows," sighed the perpetually exasperated English beauty. "These bloody schools think Miranda is made of money, just because she's raised a few dollars for women's education. Ridiculous the way schools have to pass the hat to function. In my country the state gives everyone a proper education!"

"Yeah, but we can teach our kids anything we want," Andy countered. "You know, dinosaurs are a myth, Global Warming is a conspiracy, guns make people safer . . . Americans have a fiercely independent streak."

"Right, that's been your problem from the very beginning." Emily didn't often joke, but when she did her dry English wit always made Andy smile. "Now don't you dare stir from this office until the book is dropped off at midnight."

"No stirring, got it!" Andy smiled, hoping Emily would smile back. Instead she simply left, her high heels going clack-clack on the polished floor.

Now on this night Andy fought to remain extra vigilant. She kept getting up every few minutes and going out into the hall. Somehow she felt that if she kept her eyes open the ghost would be afraid to appear. In books and movies they only showed up when they could take a person by surprise. Of course, in books and movies ghosts never bothered people who worked eighteen hour days. Andy yawned, relaxing a little in her leather-cushioned chair. And all at once she was asleep and dreaming.

She was a slave in Maryland. She was pretty, soft-spoken, and her skin was a lovely chocolate brown. The master's son wanted her, but she was clever and escaped. The North Star led her to freedom, to a new life in a city of constant change. And when she reached New York City, she stood on the very spot where Runway magazine would one day stand.

Miranda was waiting for her, of course. But in her dream Miranda was jet-black and weighed three hundred pounds. She wore a tall Indian-style turban made of purple silk, and she fought off coppers and criminals alike with a knotted oak club.

"You need a job, country girl?"

Andy awoke in a shivery panic. The ghost was back, looking at her with terrible sadness shining out of her unwinking black eyes. She nodded slightly, as if confirming something Andy already knew. And then she was gone.

Miranda was her old self the next day. She scolded Andy and Emily with energy and imagination, whispering elegant insults and subtle sarcasm. But it wasn't till lunchtime that Andy got a hint as to what had improved her mood.

"Patty Sullivan." Miranda pronounced the name with unmistakable satisfaction. "Get us a table for lunch at that little place I like right around the corner from the New York Public Library. And call that dreary old nun with the itchy fingers. Tell her we'll be having an extra guest for dinner on Friday."

Andy had to jump through plenty of hoops to get Miranda a table at the last minute. But she didn't mind. Patty Sullivan was a celebrity in her own right, a Pulitzer Prize winner and an outspoken feminist who combined a taste for upper class elegance with uncompromising liberal politics.

Miranda was bringing in the big guns.

"Scissors, paper, rocks," she remarked to Emily as she was dashing out the door on her latest impossible mission.

"What on _earth_ are you babbling about?" Emily was all haughty disdain, her sexy metallic blue eye shadow giving her a look of cool detachment. But then she leaned closer. "Have you got something up your sleeve?"

Andy lifted one dark eyebrow. "You know the children's game? Scissors cut paper, paper covers rock, rock breaks scissors? Well, a glamorous celebrity Catholic like Patty Sullivan will put money-grubbing Sister Josephine right back in her place."

"That sounds more like dog eat dog than whatever you just said." Emily hesitated, then spoke softly. "Good luck."

Andy didn't figure she needed any good luck; she assumed that Miranda and her friend Patty had the situation well in hand. But while the two powerful women were doing lunch, the skinny second assistant decided to do some research at the New York Public Library.

"Miranda, I've been looking at your schedule for Friday night," Andy told her boss later that afternoon. "Do you think maybe we could move the dinner with Sister Josephine?"

"I pay you to make things happen, Andrea. Not to put things off."

"I don't mean rescheduling the time," the dark-eyed girl quickly clarified. "I just mean, what if we had a quiet affair right at the office? We could cater and you could have an intimate dinner with Patty Sullivan and Sister Josephine right in the conference room. Like they're both Runway insiders."

Miranda studied her eager young assistant's lovely face. "You have something up your sleeve, don't you, Andrea?"

"No, no!" Andy's huge dark brown eyes were the picture of innocence. "It's just that there's more privacy, and more space, and . . . well, we just might have an uninvited guest."

Sister Josephine was a sloppy eater. She reminded Andy of a pig at a trough. Yet there was an undeniable toughness there too. The nun's blunt features held a bulldog's stubborn meanness. Every time she jabbed her fork in the air you could tell she really wanted to jab it in someone's face.

"Without us, you have anarchy," the old bag was saying, gesturing emphatically with her fork, while the pretty young nun beside her kept her eyes on her plate. "You may not like our methods, you may rebel against our rules, but at the end of the day you'll give us what we need to keep our schools going. Because we're the only thing standing between all this . . ." the fork was waving in a circular motion ". . . and them. Either the church rules, or the mob rules. Think of the French Revolution!"

"Sister always comes right to the point," Patty Sullivan said admiringly. "Runway magazine and the church actually have a common mission, when you think about it. Educating the poor and teaching them to appreciate the finer things in life."

"That's very true," Miranda said quietly. "And it's one reason I've been such a loyal supporter of the city's religious schools. But I don't appreciate being blackmailed into giving more than the magazine can afford."

"No one is blackmailing you, little girl," the fat old nun snorted. "We just think you should give us a little more money from now on, being that the Elias-Clark building stands on ground that was taken from the church."

"Purchased from the church," Miranda corrected. "It wasn't taken by violence. The old convent school was torn down in 1966, and the Elias-Clark building went up five years later. Isn't that correct, Andrea?"

"Yes, Miranda." Andy spoke softly, but she was trembling with rage because of the way fat Sister Josephine had just addressed her employer. Little girl. Miranda Priestley not a little girl. Her years of hard work and selfless devotion to Runway magazine proved she was a mature and accomplished woman. An extraordinary woman. Andy took a deep breath. She was afraid of Sister Josephine. But she was ready to face death and damnation for her strict and unforgiving boss.

"I had a strange dream the other night," she began, her voice calm and serene instead of breathy and nervous like usual. "I was living here in New York City during the Civil War. I had a wonderful job, where I got to wear fancy clothes and meet all sorts of interesting people. My boss was a dynamic personality, a strong woman who got things done. She was a lot like you, Miranda. Except she was black and she ran a whorehouse on the same piece of land we're sitting on right now. They called her Sue the Turtle."

"No filthy talk of whores at this table, Miss," Sister Josephine growled. "Our Church protects women from degradation and violence." If she'd had a ruler she would have rapped Andy's knuckles with it.

"This is still my table," Miranda said quietly. "Please go on, Andrea."

"The Church didn't buy this land from Sue the Turtle," Andy continued. "It didn't need to. There was a terrible fire, set on purpose by people who hated sin. People like you, Sister Josephine."

"No-one's proud of those days," Patty Sullivan quickly put in. "The Irish in this city had to overcome discrimination to survive, just like blacks in the South and the Jews in Europe. Today the church's doors are open to people of all colors."

"Don't apologize to these heathens!" Sister Josephine barked. "We saved this city from sin! Sin was here, and we drove it out."

"Not all of it," Andy told her gently. "Some of it still lingers."

That was when they all saw it.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God!" Sister Josephine crossed herself. Patty Sullivan did the same. The pretty Latina nun sitting with them did nothing at all.

"When the fire started, Sue the Turtle told all the girls to run. The Turtle held the mob off as long as she could, till the flames engulfed her. She was as brave as any queen, but she died in a reign of terror no-one even remembers. I could have stuck around if I'd wanted to, but I didn't want to. I took off running, but my skirts were so long and I had a baby in my arms and . . . well, the Irish never liked sin. And so we never left this place. We've been waiting all these years just for you, Josephine."

No-one was sure just when Andy's gentle voice became that of the young woman in the shadows. The lights in the conference room went dim, flickering like candles in a hurricane. The strangely luminous image of the mother and child seemed to waver too. And then they were gone.

"Heart attack," Emily Charlton huffed the next day. "Cold-blooded murder, more like. You frightened that poor woman to death!"

"Well, according to what Patty Sullivan wrote in the Times this morning, Sister Josephine died of joy when Miranda promised to write her a check. A very small check, as it turns out. And as for being afraid, well . . ." Andy's soft, gentle voice got rough and scratchy. "Well, it's what people know about themselves, inside, that makes them afraid."

Emily rolled her eyes. "You Americans, you're all such bloody cowboys. That's some stupid quote from some childishly gruesome Spaghetti Western, isn't it?"

Dark-eyed Andy flashed a desperado grin. "High Plains Drifter, partner. Come to think of it, that was a ghost story too."

"You knew all along what was waiting for Sister Josephine, didn't you? And you knew her poor little assistant was dying to leave the church as well. You put Patty Sullivan up to hiring her before the old boot was cold. Didn't you?"

Andy shrugged. "It was just a suggestion. And I didn't know for certain what would happen last night. But I think our ghost is at peace now. It just goes to show you that a little research never hurts. That's why I'm so excited to be living in New York City. It's not the fashion, it's the public libraries."

"Humph! Proper little scholar, you are." Haughty Emily tried to hide a smile. And for once she failed.

"But the one thing I can't understand is, why do decent, intelligent people like Patty Sullivan continue letting petty tyrants like Sister Josephine push them around?"

"Emily," cried a soft voice from the inner office. "Emily!"

"Right, what were you saying?" Emily Charlton drawled.

Andy didn't have time to answer. She rushed off to her next crisis, grateful that life at Runway was finally back to normal.


End file.
